Hell in a Handbasket
by Squashed Sandcastle
Summary: Lovely Sarkiness. Hmm.... Hey look! I updated! about 10 months later, but I updated!
1. Nocturne no 9 no 1

Sark came home to his penthouse apartment, locking all three of the deadbolts, and immediately flopped down on his black leather couch. It had been one of those days.  
  
He took time to close all the blinds. Out of habit, mostly-he wasn't in danger. Not at the present anyways, he thought pessimistically.  
  
Wine, he thought. . . . . . . .I need wine.  
  
Without thinking he took out a bottle of Cabernet from the cupboard and poured it out, preparing himself for the numbing sensations which would follow. Just holding the glass in his hand made his body relax.  
  
He had bought an entire set of glasses, just for style's sake, though it wasn't needed. He would never entertain guests.  
  
Sitting back down on the couch again with his glass of Cabernet, he tried to seek solace from the vintage French posters hanging on the white walls- from the red pillow on his black couch, a somewhat out-of-place bit of color in the myriad of black and white that was his home. If you could call it that. He looked down at the glass once more, swirling its contents around in smooth, rhythmic motions.  
  
No, he had learned long ago that the only place he found solace was here.  
  
It took him halfway through the bottle before he realized he was still wearing his black suit. It immediately discomforted him. It had been one of those days, and he wanted to shed his persona.  
  
A shower should take care of it, he decided. As he let the hot water beat upon him and trickle down, images of the degradation that had been today reentered his mind.  
  
**********  
  
"The race is coming to an end." Irina had been talking to Sloane on the plane. Sark had been sitting on the side as usual, typing his intel into his laptop, waiting for them to jump.  
  
"There are still some things that need taken care of before this race can end." Sloane sent Irina a furtive look, who briefly glanced at Sark before speaking again  
  
"Will you excuse us for a moment?" She asked Sark, even though all parties were fully aware that it wasn't a question.  
  
Seething inside for being treated like a mindless minion instead of an asset, Sark had obeyed. By the time he was allowed to reenter, they had already formulated their plans for "taking care of loose ends." And it involved him.  
  
"--You want me to what??" he asked angrily.  
  
"It's strategic planning, Mr. Sark. We're going to embed a satellite locator in your hip, disguising it as an appendix scar, and then from within the building, you'll be able to give us a full detail map of the CIA building, then we'll come in and steal the remaining Rambaldi pieces from them."  
  
"It's suicide. I refuse." Sark said bluntly.  
  
"They won't kill you; you know too much. You just have to make sure you don't play your entire hand before we extract you." Irina said diplomatically.  
  
"Do you think I'm a fool? You won't extract me; you'll get what you want and leave me there to die. I refuse." Sark said, before feeling cold steel press against his temple.  
  
"It wasn't an option, Sark." Irina's voice grew deadly and cold, and a sidelong glance showed Sloane was holding a gun to his head.  
  
"I'm not just another mindless SD-6 agent, Sloane. I am an equal partner in this venture." Sark said, letting just a trace of anger infiltrate his cool demeanor.  
  
"And as an equal partner, we're going to have you participate in our plans. Whether you like it or not." Irina added as a finality.  
  
He knew he could easily take down Sloane, but Irina would be too much for him to handle. He was left with no options.  
  
"What do you want me to do?" Sark's voice remained level, hands in the air, his only goal to stay alive for the moment.  
  
"Simply cooperate with our plan, and I promise you, you'll be extracted after the mission is completed." Irina said. A trace of Russian accent was finding its way back into her voice, after living outside America and the Bristow family for so long.  
  
It was uncanny how much her and her daughter were alike, minus the sadism and the accent. Sydney. I wonder where she is now, he had wondered fleetingly, in the midst of the turmoil. She had been so fun to toy with. It had been a good three months since he had seen her.  
  
For a personal distraction from his situation, he entertained memories of her singing in Paris while Irina shot him with a tranquilizer. Black Corset top. Her hand flowing over his chest. . . . .  
  
Then the drugs kicked in and his eyes closed.  
  
If the conversation hadn't been about him, Sark might have laughed. Irina's word broke as easily as a wine glass.  
  
********  
  
Sark meandered back into the drab, lifeless living room after his shower, wearing a black cotton T-Shirt that hugged his form and black cotton pants. Though Armani was always a great fit, it had never been useful for lounging around. Putting some Chopin on the CD player and returning to the wine, he weighed his options. He was to wait for a period of two weeks before turning himself in, during which time he would be monitored to make sure he didn't decide to run from it.  
  
They had already put the satellite feed in his hip. They could track him. He knew there was no way he could take it out without them getting to him first. There was no way out. He had officially become a pawn, when not more than a week ago he had been the devil's right hand man. How had he let this happen?  
  
And for now, Sark did not want to think about it. He leaned back on the couch letting the Nocturne No. 9 No. 1 roll over his body, relaxing him, letting emotion rise in the pit of his stomach.  
  
A combination of the piano and the wine eventually sank him into a dreamless sleep. 


	2. Acceleration

One week and 6 days before he was supposed to willingly turn himself in to his own death, Sark was driving at dangerously high speeds along the California coastline in his Black Porsche. It wouldn't matter if he careened off the edge anyways, Fate had already marked down his doom. Unless. . . . . . . .  
  
Unless he could attempt the impossible.  
  
There. Up ahead he saw it. The lookout point that he had picked out in his Thomas guide some two hours earlier. The most random spot he could think of to make a cell phone call on the untraceable cell phone he had bought on the street on the way here.  
  
Once again, he was thanking his lucky stars for having so many connections in the espionage world.  
  
His foot slammed on the brake, sending the Porsche into a fishtail that stopped a mere 6 inches from the guardrail at the lookout. Sark smiled in spite of himself, and exited the car. As soon as the dust cleared, he could hear the gulls, calling out across the clear blue water, could smell the salty sweet in the air.  
  
From memory he dialed the number. Let it ring six times before a gruff deep voice answered-  
  
"Smith's Auto Body."  
  
"Dr. Smith. It has been awhile, hasn't it?" Sark knew that he needed not introduce himself. The man would remember.  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
"It seems I remember you owing me a favor. I've decided to cash in on it."  
  
"When are you coming by?" He said, exasperated after a moment.  
  
Sark knew he wouldn't be able to say no.  
  
"I'll be dropping off my car at about three tomorrow." Professional habit made him not speak of matters over the phone. Despite the untraceable signal, he was ever wary of the people listening. It would be better to explain the problem face to face anyways. Smith was the only surgeon who could be trusted to do this; Sark didn't want to screw up his chance.  
  
Smith did not give an answer to Sark's statement.  
  
"Hello?" Sark called into the speaker, immediately apprehensive.  
  
"Hello?" he tried again. A faint beeping noise sounded behind him, and his instincts kicked in.  
  
He ducked down just in time to see a shard of black metal go flying over his head. He felt himself go flying over the edge of the guardrail, as the blast hit his body full on. In the nick f time he reached out and grasped the edge of the guardrail, bloodying his knuckles and sending his body crashing into the side of the cliff in the process. But at least he wasn't dead.  
  
Looking down, he saw the cell phone shrinking down into oblivion before it came to a splashing end in the water below.  
  
He winced as he used his tattered arm to pull himself back up onto the road.  
  
There sat the remnants of his Black Porsche, now a twisted, smoking ball of metal. He could read Irina's message loud and clear, as if she had been standing right behind him whispering it his ear in that dangerously quiet way of hers.  
  
You Fool.  
  
Smith is dead.  
  
Did you really think that it could be that simple?  
  
Did you really think we wouldn't bug you as well?  
  
Try it again and it won't just be your car that explodes.  
  
You complete idiot.  
  
Sark winced as he stood up; he could almost feel the bruises forming. Discarding his tattered jacket and shattered sunglasses, he unbuttoned his shirt and surveyed the damage. He was lucky. Nothing had bled. However, he could already start to make out the purple splotches forming on the chiseled muscles of his abdomen and back. He tensed them, and felt pangs of soreness shoot through his body.  
  
However, there was nothing he could do for himself at the present, so he gritted his teeth, quietly limped over to the side of the road. He thought for a moment, and decided to just leave his shirt halfway unbuttoned. The heat was becoming unbearable anyways, and his shaky fingers would most likely stumble on the buttons. Sark hated seeing signs of his own weakness.  
  
Searching for the gun in the back of his pants, he immediately felt better to touch the cold steel and still know of its presence. Having it with him always gave him some measure of security, no matter the situation.  
  
Leaning against the guardrail, he quietly waited for a car to come.  
  
**************  
  
Sydney Bristow sped along the highway at a rate quite a bit higher than the speed limit on a coastline highway, in an attempt to run away from the problems chasing her. Ironic was the soft jazz piano playing in her CD player as she revved the engine louder. She careened around the curves, daring her car to fly off one of them. How simple it would be if I ended it that way, she thought for a moment.  
  
She wasn't supposed to be doing this anymore. But instead, her mother had abandoned her again, leaving a void much bigger than the previous one, and in response her father had become glacial again, when he had just begun to defrost. Worst though, was the fact that Vaughn was keeping secrets form her, and the one person whom she thought she would always trust was becoming suspicious in her eyes, despite how she tried to stifle her feelings.  
  
Syd jacked the air conditioning to high, even though she knew it would do no good. She had a sinking feeling that her body temperature was only partially due to the heat outside, and more so to her stress level.  
  
She could feel the beads of sweat forming at the base of her neck, trickling down the gully along the center line of her back, leaving a tickling sensation where they had been. The heat she was feeling, whether real or imaginary, was definitely beating her down.  
  
Looking off into the distance, Sydney noticed a cloud of smoke rising up from some unknown location around the next curve. Though she knew it was most likely a burned out engine, she still sped up, weary of and threats. The spy world had made her suspicious of anything out of the ordinary.  
  
She took the curve so fast she left skid marks on the road. Taking a fleeting glance out of the corner of her eye- she glanced at the source of the smoke.  
  
Immediately slammed on the brakes.  
  
It was no burned out engine. A twisted, distorted lump of metal, which Sydney guessed had at one time been a car, was smoking off to the side of the road, bits of it still on fire. And sitting some ten feet to the side of the wreckage sat the unlikely owner, somebody Sydney would never had expected to see.  
  
Sark was leaning nonchalantly against the guardrail, seemingly unperturbed by the smoldering wreckage to the side of him. When he saw Sydney stop, he smiled for a moment, a fake smile (Sydney could tell), and began walking over to the car. Thank God for tinted windows, Syd thought.  
  
This is the ticket we need to get to Irina-she thought to herself. She refused to call her "Mother" anymore.  
  
The second Sark opened the door he knew the game. In one fluid motion he removed the gun from his pants, and cocked it at her head.  
  
"Well, this is an ironic end to my day." He said sarcastically. She could feel the anger seething from him. He was slipping today, Syd could tell. Sark usually kept his emotions in check.  
  
"Hands off the wheel." Syd obeyed, wishing to herself that she had not put her gun in the glove compartment today. She didn't want to be left on the Carmel coast without a car in this heat. Sark came around to her side of the car and was about to force her out, when he looked down at his hands.  
  
Sydney could see his knuckles, white and bleeding, his hands shaking while gripping the gun. She knew what he was thinking. There was no way he could drive.  
  
I might just get out of this yet, Syd thought.  
  
"You drive." he said after a painful second, and found his way into the front seat. "Drive until I tell you to stop, then let me out and keep going. Any false moves and I won't hesitate to shoot you."  
  
"You're not, under any circumstances, to drive towards the CIA headquarters. I won't end up in that glass cell of yours until I decide to put myself there." Sydney declined the idea of asking about his weird comments.  
  
"Fine. Buckle up."  
  
She purposefully floored it before he had his seatbelt on, just to spite him. His head crashed into the headrest as she took off. It would be easy to later on make a sudden stop, send the gun flying out of his weak hands. But not yet. Not til they were closer to civilization.  
  
"Jesus Christ, You drive fast." he said once he had finally gotten comfortable. He leaned back against the door, facing Sydney, his feet resting on the center console.  
  
"If you don't like it, you can find some other car to hijack. I would be happy to toss you out." she said. "While in motion." she added, as an afterthought.  
  
"If you didn't want a passenger, why did you stop to pick me up in the first place?" The coy smirk was beginning to appear on his face once more.  
  
"I picked you up solely for the intent of putting you in a cell, Sark." she said bluntly.  
  
"Tsk tsk, Sydney. I thought you were going to be rid of the spy game once SD-6 was out of the way."  
  
"What would you know about my goals?"  
  
"I had a hunch."  
  
Sydney didn't say anything.  
  
"And I'm guessing that I was right, wasn't I?"  
  
The car accelerated.  
  
"I'll take that as a yes."  
  
Sydney still said nothing, concentrating on the road. She was afraid of how right he was, how he knew exactly how to get a rise out of her. How angry he always made her feel. How the moment he started asking her questions, she knew she would start to feel emotions exploding in the pit of her stomach, traveling, leaving sensations as they flowed up her throat, twinging her voice until she couldn't help but burst out. And that she would give in and say-  
  
"Sark, do you have nothing better to do than harass me? Why me? What sadistic pleasure do you get from annoying me that you can't find by just shooting someone, or whatever it is that you do for fun? Just get on with your stupid little Rambaldi hunt and quit butting into my life!" Sydney swerved the car, narrowly missing the guardrail. Sark pretended not to notice.  
  
"Sydney, could we just pretend for once that not everything is about you? That maybe, I didn't want to be stuck on the side of the road either?" Sark said, mock patronizing. But Sydney wasn't listening. She was driving faster and faster, going further off on her soapbox. She had just found the perfect source to vent her mood upon.  
  
"Why couldn't you and Sloane have just butted out of my life? My mother would still be here . . . . . I would get out of this business . . . . . . My dad wouldn't have gone off the deep end again . . . . . . . It could have been SIMPLE!! But you" --swerve around another curve, sending Sark flying against the door-"You had to go and COMPLICATE things! Why couldn't you-"  
  
"Oh, shove it Sydney!" Sark burst out, cutting her off.  
  
"Life will never be simple. Get over it!"  
  
"I CAN'T!"  
  
A small explosion emitted from under the hood, and Syd's convertible suddenly went into a tailspin before skidding to a stop. She had overheated the engine. 


	3. Stan the Man

Sark smashed his hand on the dashboard and gave Sydney a death glare.  
  
"Jesus Christ . . . . . . Now you've really done it . . . . . . . . ." Smoke plumes drifted off the hood of the car and wafted away to the see. Sydney just stared ahead for a moment, before slamming her head against the steering wheel. The car's horn let out continuous racket from where she hit.  
  
Sark yanked her head back up.  
  
"I can't believe you did this . . . . . ." He began grumbling as he climbed out of the car.  
  
"Me?? How is this my fault?" she said, slamming the door and exiting the car as well. Sark stared at her dumbfounded for a moment. How was this NOT her fault?  
  
"YOU are the one who decided to push my buttons-" she continued, "What Sark, did you just get up this morning and decide that today would be a good day to irritate the Hell out of me? You picked the wrong day. I was already stressed out, and you just decided to see how far you could push me. If anything this is your fault for distracting me . . . . ." She prodded a finger into his chest, invading his personal space. Sark took a step back, in spite of himself. She was REALLY pissed off.  
  
"Look, if you want to rationalize your own stupidity, that's fine with me. But don't start venting your anger on me-it's your own fault and you know it." he said, regaining his cool composure. Sydney glared at him a second, before sighing and slumping cross-legged on the ground.  
  
"So what are we supposed to do now?" she said finally, head in hands, voice filled with defeat. Sark could tell that this was probably the last place she wanted to be right now.  
  
"Wait for another car, I guess . . ." Sark answered, standing nonchalantly against the guardrail. Wasn't I just in this predicament 15 minutes before?  
  
"Wait . . ." Sydney said, sitting up, "go into the glove compartment of my car-there should be an emergency cell phone in there." Sark hurried over and pulled it out. When Sydney reached for it however, he backed out of her grasp once more.  
  
"Oh no you don't," he started, "I'LL dial the number, Ms. Subtle CIA Agent." Sydney gave another small sigh and leaned back against the railing.  
  
He found towing services on the speed dial and pressed the number. A chipper female voice answered.  
  
"Smith's Auto Body, how may we help you?" Sark almost let out a scream of annoyance. He was really getting an odd sense of déjà vu with this entire scenario. Keeping his gun trained on Sydney to prevent any quick moves, he explained the situation.  
  
"You are at a very remote location, sir. A tow truck probably will be able to get there in about an hour or two." The happiness in this woman's voice was beginning to get to Sark.  
  
"Can't you get one here any faster?" he asked, his voice remaining dangerously level.  
  
"I'm sorry sir, but you are a long way out-"  
  
"Never mind, just get here as soon as possible." With that, he hung up.  
  
"What's our time limit?" Sydney asked, weary.  
  
"Two hours at most. Hopefully I intimidated her enough to get it down to one."  
  
"Let's hope so." She slipped her sunglasses down over her eyes, and cast a sidelong glance towards the ocean. For some reason, the gesture made Sark relax a bit. Though he still held a firm grip on it, he lowered the gun and released the tension in his arm.  
  
They sat placid for a good many minutes, neither having anything to say to one another that wouldn't end up in a gun battle. Besides, Sark knew that Sydney was just as appreciative of the calm in silence as he was.  
  
Suddenly Sydney let out a small gasp. Sark looked out onto the water to see the source of her surprise, but found nothing but the rhythmic pounding of the waves.  
  
"I saw a spout." she explained simply. Sark nodded.  
  
"The Grays are moving this time of year . . ." she continued, drifting off with no particular direction.  
  
"I wouldn't know." he said by way of reply. Both were in only half there, half within the mazes of their complicated minds.  
  
Sydney fell back into watching the waves, and Sark found himself watching Sydney. The heat was getting to her, he could tell. Sweat caused the white cotton fabric of her T-shirt to cling to her, showing off her curves. The wind blowing off the water had caused a few stray wisps of hair to blow out from her ponytail, falling down her face behind her sunglasses, just brushing the top edges of her lips. She looked much more human now, without the makeup and tight dresses, and somehow it made her look twice as beautiful.  
  
Unnerved, Sark turned away, brushing a hand through his hair, and walked back to the broken down car, just for movement. Despite the heat and stuffy atmosphere, he climbed in, thankful he could put a door between himself and the increasingly more attractive Sydney Bristow.  
  
************  
  
Sydney shook out of her daze when she detected Sark's movement out of the corner of her eye-it was the first sound she had heard out of him for the past half hour. She had to admit, she appreciated him for it. Taking pains not to move her head, she watched him retreat into the convertible from behind the shield of her tinted sunglasses.  
  
Her stomach rumbled. She had been so agitated, had she even bothered to eat breakfast this morning? Another growl told her no.  
  
Sighing, Sydney stood up from her comfortable repose and walked towards the car, in search of the Powerbar she had stashed in the glove compartment. Sark, who had been lost in his own thoughts, looked up at her approaching figure.  
  
"What?" he asked when she was within speaking range.  
  
"Can I get into the glove compartment a sec?"  
  
"What do you need out of it, I'll get it for you." Still suspicious then. She was growing annoyed of his persistence, but since he held the gun, there was nothing she could do about it.  
  
"There's a Powerbar in there." she said after a beat. Sark raised his eyebrows momentarily, then retrieved it for her.  
  
"Here." he said, tossing it to her.  
  
"Thanks." she said, and ripped into it, opting to sit on the ground here and lean herself up against the car door. Sark looked down upon her from the open window, expressionless, watching her eat. Syd craned her neck and looked up at his face, looking down on hers.  
  
"Want some?"  
  
Sark looked a moment like he was going to refuse; out of habit she was sure that was his usual response. Finally, he held out his hand.  
  
"I haven't had anything substantial for the past two days except wine." He said, diving into his half with voraciousness.  
  
"I wouldn't exactly call wine a substantial food source." she said, still looking up at him.  
  
"I would."  
  
"Yes, but from my observations thus far Sark, you are mentally unsound."  
  
"I'm no crazier than you are, Sydney." he countered.  
  
"Which means you are mentally unsound." he raised his eyebrows at her.  
  
"Care to share with the class Sydney?" he said, mocking.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You obviously have some sort of pent-up rage, between your driving and your self deprecation."  
  
"If you live the life that we live and actually have calm emotions, than you really are nuts." she scoffed.  
  
Sark shrugged his shoulders.  
  
"Fair enough." he said.  
  
Sark was the last person she'd ever tell her problems to, even though she knew he probably understood them better than anyone. He would understand them for her, and then use them against her.  
  
"Do you have any more of those things?" he asked, while fishing through the glove compartment once more.  
  
"I might. Here-" she said, opening the car door and leaning over to where he was rummaging. "You're not looking in the right place. Move the maps a little to the side-See? Under there." That was her gun that he kept pushing aside-if only she could get her hands on it, this would be over much more quickly. Relax, Sydney, you'll get your chance . . . . . . . . They always slip up somewhere.  
  
Sark looked almost comical, with half of his head stuffed inside the glove compartment as he searched for any random bits of food he could find. As he bent over further, Sydney could see the gun, protruding from the back of his pants. He closed the glove compartment, leaving the other gun inside. There, his mistake had been made.  
  
While Sark busied himself with the wrapper, Sydney slowly reached behind his bent over figure for the gun. The cellophane coating crinkled in her ears as he removed the package- she almost grasped the handle-- suddenly his hand flew up, grabbing Sydney's wrist. His head never moved.  
  
"Nice try Sydney." He said, looking at her now. His eyes laughed at her from the inside, though his face held no emotion. But he could not keep it out of his eyes. He still held her wrist. She could feel the sweat in his palms-Funny, she never thought that Sark was capable of sweating.  
  
Sark pulled her up roughly to face him by her one wrist, then swung her around before she could react, grabbing the other one. She didn't fight it- for some reason unknown to her, she wasn't feeling the least bit threatened.  
  
Holding her hands in between their faces like a barrier, Sark just stared at her a moment, while she caught her breath.  
  
"You're not making my day much easier, Sydney." He said finally. She could feel his warm breath blowing up against her fingertips as he spoke. It made her shiver, for a reason she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to contemplate. He cocked his head to the side when she broke his gaze.  
  
"What? The great Sydney Bristow has been rendered speechless? This is a rarity-no instant frigid insults." he continued, mocking her.  
  
"The insults are beginning to all sound the same," she said, glaring. "There are only so many synonyms for scumbag." Sark pretended to wince in pain, before laughing at her, holding her arms even tighter against his chest and leaning close in to her face.  
  
"Miss Bristow, we are testy today, aren't we? Insulting my actions, when you are the one who was about to grab the gun out of my back pocket. What's gotten you into such a fit today?"  
  
"Quit being patronizing Sark, and let go of Me." she whispered to his face, her voice growing soft and dangerous. Both glared at each other for a moment, both parties refusing to look away. She hated him and his icy blue eyes. Why do the most dangerous creatures always send up being the most beautiful? she wondered.  
  
She let out a breath, which collided with his own in a small whirlwind between their faces.  
  
His eye widened for a moment with an emotion she couldn't place, revealing all their blue complications. Looking down, she realized for the first time that his shirt was about halfway unbuttoned, revealing a hard, muscular chest. Bruises were beginning to form on his chiseled frame, causing Sydney to wonder what had happened. She hadn't really thought about why his car had exploded. She was too busy maintaining her goal of finding her mother and Sloane-putting an end to the madness.  
  
But she had never really taken time to look at Sark.  
  
Sydney squeezed her eyes shut to avoid certain thoughts, and opted to look up at his face once more. It took her a second to realize that his grip on her wrists had softened. And he was still looking at her.  
  
Was he coming closer?  
  
All she could see was his eyes, reflecting light like a kaleidoscope, coming towards hers, she could smell his cologne, mixed in with ginger spices, coming towards her. . . .  
  
I shouldn't be doing this what am I doing but he smells so good, he'll taste even better. . . . .More complications Sydney this is just more complications. . . .  
  
But she was so sure he would taste like wine. . . . . .  
  
He got close enough that Sydney could feel the electric current running between his lips and her own, a heightened, tingling sensation that left her breathless, running all the way down to the pit of her stomach and back up.  
  
This will not make life simpler Sydney. . . . more complications. . . . . .  
  
Her body went rigid with tense passion. . . . He'll taste so good. . . . . . .  
  
"Are you guys the car I'm supposed to tow?" Sydney jerked away, shoving out the realization that their lips had only been inches away a moment before. Sark had dropped her wrists immediately.  
  
"Yeah. . . . . Thanks for coming," Sydney said, immediately reclaiming her wits. She walked quickly towards him, leaving Sark still hunched over at the open car door. Syd read the man's nametag: Stan. Typical tow-guy name, she thought. She could see the sweat stains on the underarms of his blue jumpsuit.  
  
"No problem. Is this the uh, vehicle?"  
  
"Yeah, this would be it." she said. Her heart rate was finally beginning to return to normal.  
  
"I, uh. . . . I saw another something a little ways back that looked like it might have been a vehicle at one time, so I had to wonder if this was the right one. I figured it was though, since the other one didn't have anybody standing with it." He said, chuckling at his own joke. A little spit flew out of his mouth when he laughed.  
  
"Yeah, that was his." Syd said in a flat tone, gesturing towards Sark. "Stan" was smart enough to not inquire further.  
  
"Well, uh . . . . . I guess I'll just get this baby hitched up then." he started, "You two just wait right here til I'm done, and then I'll getcha back to town."  
  
"Thanks." Sydney said smiling at him. He blushed for a second, before heading off the get the car. Looking back, Syd could see that Sark had exited the car, and was leaning against the rail, looking out at the ocean.  
  
His blonde hair blowing wildly in the breeze, any gel had been eliminated at this point. He looked better without it, Syd thought.  
  
Silently, she approached and stood next to him at the guardrail, watching the whitecaps break on the surface. It almost made her want to dive in, feel the refreshing submersion of herself beneath the clear, cool waters. Silent, fetal, simple.  
  
If she had had the proper equipment, she would have.  
  
****************  
  
Sark pretended not to notice Sydney when she came up next to him. She accepted it, and just stood there, quietly, watching the waves, as he was. It filled him with a sudden, rebellious longing to know what was going on inside her head. He had a curiosity-no a need, to find out what she was thinking. Her face looked so placid, so devoid of the previous turmoil, as she lost herself in her daydream.  
  
Sark had always found words to be trivial in most cases, and he seldom used any unless he had taken great care to plan what he was going to say. It had always been one of his pet peeves, people who chattered obscenely as a method to fill up the silence. He remembered many times during his brief stint at SD-6, he had envisioned shooting Marshall in the face just for that reason.  
  
He himself had never thought of silence as a void to be filled, but rather, as a rare delicacy, something that should be cherished in the small moments in which it revealed itself. He loved to savor it, roll the nothingness around in his mouth like expensive wine, and then hold it there one the tip of his tongue, cradle it.  
  
He was pleasantly surprised that he and Sydney had something in common on this tangent. She was one of the first people he had met that didn't grow nervous in the presence of the still. She just sat there, serene as ever, daydreams floating across the waves. He could almost envision her eyes behind those sunglasses, half closed, as she held the soundlessness on her tongue, just as he often did.  
  
Her lips parted slightly, as she blew it out, like smoke from a cigarette. A stray hair in front of her face caught the breeze and blew onto her lips, sticking to their moistness. She paid it no heed.  
  
Sark smiled. It was rare to find someone who was so careless about their own appearance. And looked more attractive because of it. She was truly comfortable in her own skin.  
  
Syd turned her head to face Sark, and he looked away quickly, gazing hastily out at the ocean once more. He had been staring.  
  
Must be the heat, he reasoned.  
  
"What happened to your car in the first place?" she asked, looking out at the ocean once more.  
  
"Just the usual trouble." he offered, as an ambiguous response. He took a moment, gauging carefully how he was to word this-his curiosity was tempting him too far. Add in the right amount of disinterest to mask the question.  
  
"You had a particularly malicious look on your face just now. Were you envisioning throwing me off a cliff?" He hoped he had hidden his interest well enough. Never want to make it known when I care.  
  
"Actually, I was envisioning throwing myself off." Sark raised his eyebrows at that. That comment sounded rather suicidal, though he understood its meaning. She didn't want to die, she just wanted to get away.  
  
Her calm hadn't quite worn of yet, he noticed; there were no biting remarks tacked onto the end of the statement.  
  
The serenity was shattered as "Stan" let out a grunt behind them to acknowledge his presence.  
  
"I, uh. . . . . I got it all hitched up now. . . . You two will have to sit in the backseat . . . . No room up front. . . . ." He scratched his stomach and gestured to the pickup's cramped backseat.  
  
"That will be fine thank you." Sark said, taking care to make his voice sound as smooth and silky as "Stan"'s was dingy and rough. "Stan" looked at Sark for a moment, surprised at the British accent. It was the first time Sark had spoken to him. He hoped he wouldn't have to do it again.  
  
They piled into the back, Sark letting Sydney get in first. The truck was loud, not only the engine but also the country music that "Stan" elected to blast through the radio. Sark's hand kept twitching to grab his gun and use it one "Stan".  
  
They made a sharp turn, sending Sydney flying off of the stained, plaid car seat and into Sark's lap. "Stan" was oblivious, and just continued singing loudly along with Tammy Wynette. Sydney started to get up off of him hastily-and then another turn sent her flying once more. Sark just barely managed to catch her before she landed on a bag of stale French fries on the floor.  
  
Both of them looked at each other once more, and immediately started laughing, their laughter drowned out by the music. He had never expected to be laughing with Sydney Bristow, of all people, by the end of today. But the situation was so incredibly ludicrous; the fact that they were enemies was to be ignored, at least for the hour or two that they were stuck with each other in the cramp backseat of a pickup.  
  
Eventually it got to the point where Syd didn't even try to get back up anymore, she just leaned against Sark for support the whole way home. How is it that all of these turns go in the same direction? he wondered.  
  
"We're almost there!" "Stan" sounded over the blare of Garth Brooks. Thank god, Sark thought. I'm going to kill Irina for everything she's put me through. I bet Sydney would even help me.  
  
Wait.  
  
That's it. . . . . .  
  
Sydney!  
  
A plan for one last-ditch effort to get out of this was now implanted in Sark's head. He spent the rest of the trip in silent contemplation.  
  
They had just reached the outskirts of the town when Sark yelled above the radio.  
  
"Stop here! I'm getting off!"  
  
"What?!" "Stan shouted over the deafening twang of Country Western.  
  
"Stop here!"  
  
"What--?"  
  
"STOP!" The truck lurched to a halt.  
  
"You know, uh. . . . I could take you all the way in if ya needed to. . . ." "Stan" jabbered, confused.  
  
"No, right here will be fine." He said in response, happily knowing that he was frustrating Sydney in the process by escaping her. He flipped the seat down and prepared to get out. Sydney sat up in sudden awareness that she was still leaning against him. Sark couldn't help but place a coy smirk on his face.  
  
"It's been a pleasure Miss Bristow. . ." He said, and kissed the top of her hand, just to get a rise out of her. She snatched it away and glared at him, a reaction Sark relished.  
  
"Please take the necessary care that this woman be taken ALL THE WAY into town and dropped off at the auto shop with her car." he said, and slipped "Stan" a hundred dollar bill. The man's mouth gaped open like a fish. It was probably more money than the man had seen in his life, Sark thought pompously.  
  
Sauntering out, he took an extra minute so inspect Sydney's burned-out convertible before the truck started up again, and drove away towards more condensed civilization. Then he walked to the nearest payphone and called for a taxi.  
  
He was ready to take another long shower after this day. Perhaps a cold one. 


	4. Mixed Messages

"Stan" opened the door of the truck ceremoniously for the increasingly angry and frustrated Miss Sydney Bristow. She didn't look at him as she climbed down, just walked brusquely past into the garage of Smith's Auto Body. The air reeked of petroleum and cigarette smoke. Syd leaned just outside the Garage doors against the brick, in attempt to get some fresh air, first from the stale moldy smell of the car, and now the noxious fumes of the garage.  
  
Though she hated to admit it, she missed Sark right now. Anything was better than being alone with a sweaty, overweight and balding middle-aged trucker. Especially when he kept smiling at her suggestively with his tobacco-stained teeth.  
  
"How long til I can get my car fixed?" she asked, not returning the smile. "Stan" faltered.  
  
"It'll uh-- It'll probably be next Tuesday. . . . uh. . . . maybe Monday if you're lucky. . . ."  
  
"Fine." she said, cutting him off.  
  
She didn't even care that much about the car anymore anyways. It would be easy enough to get the CIA to foot the bill. She just wanted to leave; as soon as possible. Sydney was so frustrated with herself that it burned in her ears.  
  
She must have had fifty chances to apprehend Sark and bring him into CIA custody. It would have been that easy to subsequently end this war against Sloane and Irina. But she had managed to miss all the chances given to her. Why? Because she had been distracted.  
  
Distracted-- by Sark.  
  
Of all the frivolous things to sedate her logic, it had been a simple pair of clear blue eyes and muscles. And he had known all along that he had her-- even deigned to cause her further embarrassment, kissing her hand with that stupid cocky I-won-again smile of his.  
  
The heat and stress had gotten to her-- made her lose her logic altogether. Her anger had made her rash, had given her tunnel vision so that she didn't see her opportunities until they had already vanished. It had to have been her stress. It had to have been the heat. She wouldn't let her mind wander to other possibilities. They weren't viable in her mind's eye.  
  
Nor were there any possibilities in her mind's eye of her failing again. There would be no I-won-again cocky smile on his face next time. It would be on hers.  
  
*************  
  
"Well, uh. . . . I think that that's the last of it. . ." "Stan" said, gesturing to the mountainous pile of finished paperwork. Sydney was already on the phone calling for a taxi.  
  
"Okay," she said after hanging up, "I'm going to grab some stuff out of my car, and then I'll be leaving. Call me when it's ready." She stood up, leaving before "Stan" had a chance to speak. She would get her gun, then be through with this entire mess. Walking across the gravel and crabgrass, she had an involuntary thought of her and Sark, laughing in the back of the truck. There hadn't even really been purpose for the laughter, yet it was just hilarious. A moment of happiness and hilarity with no reason. Choking- face-turning-red-definitely-unnattractive-but-perilous-to-stop laughter.  
  
A few years before she had joined the CIA, when her and Francie had just become really good friends, those types of moments had been frequent and normal. Eventually, after telling and retelling these moments over and over, Francie had started to give them Epic titles. There had been the Great Laundromat Flood of 97, The One-Night Quest for the Perfect Kiss (they had just gone down the line of doors in the guy's dorm), and the Apocalyptic Pasta Peril.  
  
This had been the first time in a long time that she had had one of those moments.  
  
Now at her car door, she shook her head, in attempt to shake out all unreasonable thoughts. No, that's not how it works Sydney, quit adding more to the list of mistakes you've made today. The only thing you should see when you look at Sark is a ticket for revenge on Sloane and your mom . . . . He is a means to an end-- an object.  
  
Sydney spied a crisp folded piece of paper in the passenger's seat-- it had not been there before. Unfolding it with sweaty palms, she examined the slanted, spiked writing for familiarity, and found none.  
  
__________________  
  
Sydney,  
  
Napa is nice in the summer. I highly recommend that you take a visit there, ALONE. They have spectacular wine-especially the Cabernet Sauvignon '92. They are supposed to have great weather there tomorrow.  
  
__________________  
  
It wasn't signed. There was no need.  
  
Below was an address that Sydney presumed to be a vineyard. Sydney slid her sunglasses on top of her head, squinting into the sun while she thought things through.  
  
This might be her chance to make up for previous mistakes, to take Sark in, and bleed him for all he was worth. This might get her to her mother.  
  
Or were there other unvoiced reasons for this?  
  
Sydney shoved the last thought out of her mind as she entered the taxi that had just pulled up on the curb. She didn't look back.  
  
***********************  
  
Sark ended day two of his exile the same as he had the first- Cabernet and a Cold Shower. He was careful afterwards to check himself over in the mirror for any serious wounds, other than the various inevitable scrapes and bruises he had acquired. Breathing a sigh of relief, he found none. He was lucky. Irina and Sloane would have had him in a body bag before he had even gotten within one mile of a hospital.  
  
Unabashedly discarding his towel in the hamper, he walked out into the kitchen. He looked up only once, checking to make sure the shutters were drawn, then headed straight for the half-empty bottle. The tinkling echo as the wine cascaded down into the glass- the sound was almost therapeutic.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a red light blinking. Sarks eyes widened, and he quickly ducked behind the countertop to shield himself. His bare back hit the cold wood of the cabinet, making him jump involuntarily.  
  
Sark cast a longing, sideways glance at his gun holster, cast haphazardly on the couch. If anything, I should at least be wearing that. This would have to be the second bomb today, he thought sarcastically.  
  
It took Sark a couple of seconds to realize that he had been holding his breathe. Another realization-- It had been a couple of seconds and the bomb hadn't detonated yet. Something was up.  
  
Still waiting.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Slowly inching his back up the cold cabinet wall, feeling the smoothness slide under his warm skin. He turned his head and peeked over the top of the counter to see the bomb.  
  
. . . . . . . . . And swore at his own incompetence.  
  
The red light continued blinking, not in fact the detonator of a bomb, but rather, his answering machine. This was a historical event for Sark-- He had never actually had a message before. Nobody to call.  
  
Sark ran a hand through his still-wet hair.  
  
"Fuck. . . . ."  
  
They had officially gotten to him.  
  
Silently, he thanked any god who might still look down upon him, that nobody had been present to witness his stupidity. He pressed the button.  
  
Static over the speaker.  
  
"The resident is not available at this time. Please leave a message after the tone." The voice was automated, robotic. Impersonal.  
  
"BEEEEEEEEEP. . . . . . . ."  
  
The recognizable guttural sound of Sloane clearing his throat.  
  
"Try to contact anyone again, and we won't hold up our end of the deal."  
  
Bullshit, Sark thought. Like they would anyways.  
  
"And stay away from her." Click.  
  
So they had been suspicious of Sydney. He had expected they would be, even though their rendezvous had been pure coincidence for once. They would be stupid for not suspecting him.  
  
In the morning he would head up to Napa in a taxi, to finish some business. He would have to watch his step now, if this was going to work. 


	5. Harsh Truths

Sydney was huddled in the corner, wracking her body with dry sobs. The tears had all gone. In her quivering hand, she still held the gun tightly, sporadically pulling the trigger even though the bullets had run out by this time. It had gone cold and slick in her sweaty palms.  
  
Unable to sit still, she rocked back and forth, squeezing the trigger in turn. Squeeze. Rock. Rock. Squeeze. Squeeze. Rock. Back, Forth, Back, Forth. Squeeze. Sob.  
  
A river of blood flowed out from its source a few feet away from her, ran under her feet. Wells of it pooled up in between her bare toes, stained the hem of her grey cotton pants. She looked everywhere but at the blood, the source of it, never staring at one thing to long. Sobbing incoherently.  
  
She could feel a mass of wet stickiness running down her shirt. In the back of her mind, she recognized the smell. But she would not acknowledge it. Would not look at it. The red warmth of it was trapping her, driving her mad. If she looked down and saw, she would see all of it. Of what had happened.  
  
No.  
  
Don't think about it Sydney.  
  
It was trapping her. . . .  
  
Don't think of it.  
  
She squeezed her eyes tighter against he pain and oncoming knowledge.  
  
Her body shivered with cold and something else she had no desire to pinpoint.  
  
No.  
  
It's not there. . . .  
  
She felt everything-- the smell of the gun and death, both smoky and sweet, the taste of the blood with its metallic tinge, the wetness of it, creeping under her feet, making them slip as she squeezed in tighter against the oncoming cold, the wracking chills invading her. It made smeared track across the hardwood floor.  
  
Don't think.  
  
She could not help but see it.  
  
No remembrance. . . .  
  
Keep control Sydney. But there was no control.  
  
No control over her thoughts.  
  
No more simplicity.  
  
She had never had it anyways.  
  
"Life will never be simple Sydney."  
  
--Sark's words echoed in her head.  
  
The start of it all, she remembered.  
  
Life was lies and lies were life now.  
  
No more  
  
No.  
  
Rocking back and forth, tighter against the cold-  
  
NO.  
  
She broke and glanced down, confirming the bloodstain that now washed her body, her strands of unkempt hair sticking to it and flowing in with its redness, the tears standing out in the dye, making watermarks against the stain like rain. Flooding down her shirt. And the memories flooded in.  
  
Of what had happened.  
  
________________________________________________  
  
Sydney had driven to Napa the next morning, not bothering to wake Vaughn. Anything she did in this venture, she did alone. She would be personally responsible for the downfall of her mother. No one else.  
  
The drive had been surprisingly uneventful, something Sydney had to get used to after her escapades with Sark the day before. She had had to take Francie's Jetta, since her car was still with "Stan". She didn't want to think about the consequences of this little rendezvous-it would take her all day just to drive to and from Napa. She envisioned her father and Vaughn, worrying where she was-sending out private sources to investigate all leads, panicking. No, Sydney, she reasoned-don't talk yourself out of this.  
  
By noon Sydney had reached the Vineyard- A quaint, small piece of property that Syd saw at once probably was one of those places that was an unknown marvel at winemaking. Someplace you would never be able to find unless you were looking for it. It figures, she thought- Sark is both an elitist and a lover of the obsolete.  
  
"Do have any Cabernet wine here?" she had asked politely to the man at the adjoining shop. Frail and balding, he looked about as old as the vineyard itself.  
  
"Yes of course, there's a lovely selection over here. . . . . now, these over here were bottled in 98'. . . . . ."  
  
"Actually, I was looking for a specific year. Do you have any bottled in 92'?" The man looked surprised for second, then spoke.  
  
"I think we might have one left down in the cellar. . . . ." he shook his head a moment as he lead her down to lower levels.  
  
"Funny, someone else came in this morning requesting the exact same thing. . . . . . . Is there some sort of convention going on today?"  
  
"No that I know of." she said absentmindedly, thinking. So Sark had already been here today. . . . . did he just leave something behind, or was he still here?  
  
"Here it is." He said, holding up the last bottle. "Is this what you wanted?"  
  
"Close enough." she said, wishing Sark had been here as well. This was getting complicated.  
  
"May I take a look at the bottle?"  
  
"Yes, of course." He handed it to her.  
  
Sydney sloshed the contents around, holding the dark bottle up to the light so she could see the deep red liquid inside. Looking between the outside labels, Sydney could just make out and object inside, blocking the light. So this is what he had left behind for her.  
  
"I'll take it."  
  
The man smiled.  
  
______________________________________________  
  
Sydney jumped as she heard the door creak open. The sound sent her crashing back into horrible reality, where the blood rivers were now soaking up more and more of her skin. In a further effort to compact herself and slip away, she huddle tighter, no choice but to wait for the inevitable.  
  
Go away. . . . . .Go away. . . . . . . .  
  
The familiar thump of Will's briefcase hitting the table in the dining room. The lazy shuffling of his gait as he walked down the hall. And Sydney could do nothing but rock back and forth.  
  
"Hello? Anybody home?"  
  
Right about now he'd have stopped to check his expression in the hall mirror. Sure enough, the footsteps stopped, then continued once more.  
  
"Francie? Syd? Hello?"  
  
Sydney shuddered again at the sound of her own name. The footsteps stopped. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Will standing in the doorway, looking at the scene before him. The room went completely silent. Even the flowing of the blood river stood still.  
  
He turned and looked at her, then back at the body-making connections.  
  
"What the Hell have you done?!" Will screamed out suddenly, running at Sydney. She squeezed her body in tighter, shaking almost out of herself, hiding her head and gasping for the tears. She felt Will's fists buffeting her body. The pain was welcome, but they kept coming and coming. And Will kept screaming. And then in the middle, intervals of crying.  
  
"Jesus Christ, you Fucking Bitch! What did you do???!!!"  
  
Sydney felt him pulling at her hair, slamming her against the wall. Her head flew out from her protection, and Sydney opened her eyes wide as she saw Him coming at her with pure hate, panic, and fear in her eyes. Another hate-filled clenched fist coming towards her, slamming her head back against the wall once more.  
  
She dropped the gun. Will picked it up, and began pulling the trigger against her temple, pressing so hard into her skin that it created bruises, but there was nothing left. Nothing left. A swing, and Syd felt the cold hard metal collide with her cheekbone. Another swing, hitting her other cheek and snapping her head hard to the right. Tears flowed openly now from both their eyes.  
  
But she didn't fight back, she deserved all of it. She was gone.  
  
In the distance, she heard a door opening.  
  
Blackness danced on the edges of her vision, but she didn't fight back. He was punching at her chest now, clawing at her throat, but she didn't fight back.  
  
"What the Hell did you do Sydney! Why the Fuck did you do it?!"  
  
Syd gasped for air, tears streaming down her cheeks. Incoherently moaning.  
  
"Jesus Christ, why? You Bitch, why??!"  
  
"Sydney?"  
  
"TELL ME WHY!"  
  
"WILL! Sydney?!"  
  
"You Fucking Whore! WHY!!!"  
  
Will had her by the throat, slamming her head against the wall. Syd just squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the end. It was all falling into black.  
  
Then the hands were gone.  
  
Sydney looked up and saw Vaughn, holding Will back and dragging him out of the kitchen. She was confused. Touching the back of her head, she felt it sticky with her own blood, matting her hair. The blood was everywhere.  
  
Will shook off, swung towards Sydney, then towards the bloody source, arms wide, mouth gaping in a strangled cry. One of his outstretched hands found a table lamp, smashing it against the wall in pure frustration, the shards of glass and clay sliding across the wood floor and stopping at Sydney's feet, submerged in the crimson river's pools.  
  
Stumbling and swinging about, knocking into things like a kite gone too far off it's string, Will wandered until his legs hit the couch, and his face fell over the side. He smothered his face in it, a pillow wrenching in his clenched fist.  
  
The black edges closed further and further in on her vision. The last thing Sydney saw was Will's face-Eyes squeezed tightly against the light, with panicked-stubborn tears streaming down, wetting his cheeks, his mouth wide open, biting into the upholstery of the couch in pain. His face was so tense Sydney thought she could snap it in half like a brittle twig.  
  
Then her body collapsed, and the world faded fully into blackness.  
  
____________________________________  
  
Sydney had opened the bottle as soon as she got back in the car. Taking a leaf out of Vaughn's book, she had come prepared with a wine opener and paper cups. With the first pour of it, the object had slipped out, fitting easily through the neck of the wine bottle.  
  
--It would be just like Sark to take pains to make sure she wouldn't have to break the bottle.  
  
Sydney finished off her cup and re-corked the bottle, then investigated her findings. Hidden inside a silver capsule were three things- a small key, an address in Sacramento, and a note to her from Sark.  
  
***********  
  
Sydney-  
  
It's about time you knew some very important truths that Sloane has kept from you. Please note that any involvement I had in this was out of my own control- even I have my limits. I know you won't believe it, just like you probably won't believe the information I'm giving you right away, but I do have a conscience, Sydney.  
  
Think of this as a peace offering. I will be contacting you again soon-- I have some business to discuss with you.  
  
Once you have found what you are looking for, take care to not tell anyone how I helped you out. It would not bode well for either of us.  
  
**********  
  
Again it was not signed, but at this point, Sydney could recognize that angular handwriting and expensive pen ink a mile away. She would be making a stop in Sacramento on her way home to LA.  
  
Thanking the lord for Francie's GPS system, she located the address rather quickly, an old apartment complex near the center of town. Once she got into Sacramento it wouldn't be that hard to find. It was only an hour or so drive from where she was.  
  
Sydney had spent the extra time brainstorming. What did Sark want with her? Her instincts told her it probably had something to do with her mother and Sloane. Sark now knew that as Sydney's weak spot. He would probably be able to use it against her.  
  
But why would he be working against them? Had Irina or Sloane done something to piss him off? He could have gone rogue again, but Sydney doubted it. There was too much for him to lose if he left Irina and Sloane.  
  
Plus, Sydney knew that he would only come to her if he had no other options. She had a feeling that somehow he had backed himself into a corner.  
  
Well she sure as hell wouldn't help him out- But she could use him. To get to her mother, and Sloane. She could use him for the greater good.  
  
By the time that she entered the Sacramento city limits, she had the entire enterprise planned out in her head.  
  
Sydney parked the Jetta next to a run-down apartment complex that looked like it hadn't been refurbished since the 1972. Dwelling on it, Sydney realized it probably hadn't been. She looked at the directions on her dashboard.  
  
Apartment Number 47. Go Figure.  
  
It was a small, one room apartment, with rusty orange carpeting that hadn't been vacuumed since it was put in. Bits of paper and cigarette butts lined the floors. The walls that were once white had begun taking on a yellowish tinge with age, and bits of the wallpaper flaked off here and there. In the very center of this desolate nostalgia stood an olive green filing cabinet.  
  
Restless, Sydney pulled out the files, all labeled with the words: "Operation Insider."  
  
-- Agent Audrey Brown, 23  
  
Height: 5'8''  
  
Weight: 136 lbs  
  
Alias: Francie Calfo  
  
Sydney's mouth gaped open. It was impossible, the woman in this picture wasn't Francie, she didn't look anything like Francie. . . . . . . In her state of morbid curiosity, she could not help but continue reading.  
  
Undercover assignment: Gain the trust of government agents Sydney Bristow and William Tippin. Observe and collect any classified information that may be presented to you from their point of trust.  
  
Project Extermination Date: Undetermined  
  
Sydney frantically flipped to the next page. Chromosome charts. Genetic engineering. Suddenly she remembered Jim Lennox, the mission with him and his genetic twin, Dr. Markovic. Project Helix. Remembered him saying-  
  
"Wait. According to this, the sequencer's been used twice. . . . . . . I'm not the only one who's been doubled. . . ."  
  
It hadn't given the name of the other person.  
  
The file slipped out of Sydney's hands and fell onto the carpet, papers spilling everywhere. It was impossible. Unreal. Of all people, Francie. . . . . . . .  
  
No.  
  
Sydney, numb, began picking up the papers on the floor. She simply did not believe it. She would have known if something like this had happened. How long had she known Francie? Too long for her not to have noticed changes.  
  
No. Sark was screwing with her head, plain and simple. Though, Francie hadn't been acting herself lately. . . . .  
  
No. She refused to let her mind go down that path. Francie was just acting odd because of her relationship with Will. She didn't read into it further.  
  
She had to find proof. These documents had to be forgeries, she told herself. Still, the seeds of doubt had been planted deep in her mind, and she was perilous to stop it from growing. For the first time she noticed a tape recorder on the floor, amidst the papers she had been reorganizing. She picked it up, along with the rest of the things she had been reorganizing, and hurried out the door. It suddenly had gotten very stuffy in that room.  
  
Back in Francie's car, the rhythmic click of the tape resounded, along with a distant crackle that told Sydney that it had to be a blank tape. Her finger was resting on the stop button, when the small portable speaker emitted a sound that sounded somewhat similar to the ring tone of a telephone. A click as someone picked up.  
  
"Yes?" Francie's voice- but it definitely wasn't Francie. This Francie spoke in practical monotone.  
  
Sark's smooth accent invaded the Jetta interior. "I've been asked to confirm that you are in position."  
  
"Yes. Everything's in place."  
  
Another click in the speaker, signifying the end of the phone conversation, and the end of Sydney's naivety. All of a sudden, she could feel the turning of the world beneath the tires of the car.  
  
Frantically, she began searching the car, panicking, trying to find something to prove the lie. Tears streaming down her face, she shakily opened and reopened the center console, climbed over to the backseat, stuffed her entire arm forcefully down underneath the seat, sporadically groped at the glove compartment handle until she actually got a good hold on it on her fifth try.  
  
It was locked.  
  
Sydney gritted her teeth, and angrily pounded at the compartment with Francie's steering wheel jack. Her shoulders were with stress and adrenaline by the time it gave out.  
  
More files, computer printouts, and a gun.  
  
Francie had a gun.  
  
Sydney shoved it in the back of her pants, and drove home, feeling numb.  
  
**********************  
  
Sydney tried to open her eyes, but found it difficult. Through tiny slits she saw her white hospital room, and Vaughn. Always Vaughn. He looked over, and automatically started when he saw her eyes straining to open.  
  
"Sydney! Don't try to talk too much, they've still got you under sedation. . . . . . Will beat you up pretty bad, they've got him in custody. . . . . . Listen, the CIA's gonna be starting an investigation, and I don't want them harassing you right now, but they're still trying to find an explanation." He looked down for a moment. "I guess I'm kinda wonderin what happened too."  
  
Sydney took in a painful breath, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the light.  
  
"You don't have to say too much. . . . . . .Just a word; something to go on so that they won't come after you for murder. I know there's a reason for all this. . . . . . . ." His voice grew softer, more caring. "I just need to know what it is."  
  
Pain shot through Sydney's neck as she nodded her head to him in understanding. Another harsh, painful breath before she would try to speak.  
  
"The body." her voice felt raspy and foreign. She paused a moment, coughing.  
  
"Do an ocular scan on the body. . . ." Her eyelids began to droop again as a new wave of fatigue washed over her.  
  
"That's enough for me." Vaughn whispered, and gently kissed the top of her head. She closed her eyes once more, and breathed a contented sigh.  
  
"Just sleep."  
  
******************  
  
Sydney had come home at ten, with everyone asleep. But she couldn't. She knew that she was going to have to report this to the CIA. . . . . . . . . . . .but if she was wrong, then Francie would end up getting hurt. If her instincts were wrong. . . . . but somehow she knew that they weren't.  
  
She sat on the couch, and stared at the white walls in front of her until dawn, completely silent-almost comatose. What she must have looked like, she wondered, with circles under her eyes and disheveled hair. What had Francie looked like, she wondered, when they killed her? She had a sudden vision of Francie's blank eyes, blood pouring out of her mouth, tearing up in her eyes, shooting out of her ears, fingers and toes.  
  
Nobody saw her, with her head drooped beneath the headrest, when Will went off to work, kissing Francie goodbye. But she heard it all. And she heard it, when Francie sat down at the countertop bar, and began typing like crazy on her laptop.  
  
Almost robotically, Sydney rose from her spot on the couch, and turned to see the computer's screen from a distance. The United States Seal posted in the background. A CIA network.  
  
A floorboard creaked under her weight, and the woman (Sydney no longer could think of her as Francie), turned suddenly. She knew that this woman had read the knowing in her eyes. The charade was over. The woman stared at her for a second, with a cocky, sarcastic glare, before she moved for her gun.  
  
By instinct, Sydney was faster. She pulled the gun from out the back of her pants and fired before the other woman even had it raised. Shot, once, through the chest, then again, and again and again until blood pooled on the floor and there was no more sound emitting from the barrel except the click click click of a gun emptied and Sydney with it.  
  
And Sydney sank to the floor and cried, still clicking the gun over and over.  
  
******************  
  
"Sydney? Sydney?" Vaughn echoed through her head, interrupting her memories. Sydney opened her eyes once more to the white hospital room. It wasn't quite so hard this time. Vaughn looked rough, like he had been up all night.  
  
"Sorry-they need to give you meds." He was doing the forehead-wrinkled- worried look again.  
  
"It's alright" she said, rasping a little. It was then that she noticed all the flowers. White Roses from Dixon, yellow daisies from Marshall, and orchid from her father, 12 long-stemmed roses from Vaughn. And at the end of the line, a single white lily.  
  
"Who's that from?" She whispered to Vaughn.  
  
He gave her a sidelong glance.  
  
"We don't know-but they checked it out, it's safe." He handed her the card.  
  
___________________  
  
I'm so sorry.  
  
___________________  
  
Familiar, slant-spiked writing. No signature. There was no need.  
  
"Any idea who it's from?" He asked.  
  
"Not a clue." 


	6. Guilt and Submersion

Sark couldn't place the feeling that was settling at the bottom of his stomach, weighing him down and giving him a perpetual feeling of sickness. If he hadn't known himself, he would have called it guilt, but Sark had abandoned that emotion long ago, with most others, except boredom, scorn, and anger.  
  
He hadn't counted on Tippin snapping. It never occurred to Sark that Tippin would snap-- he always seemed like the type that just got washed over by others instead. But now in hindsight, he couldn't believe he had missed the signs with Tippin's anxieties. The pent-up anger, and out of control history all led down to it when he finally broke down.  
  
Sark was surprised at Sydney, who was doing nothing in the ways of charging him. Just as she had done nothing to defend herself during his attack. That, at first, was what had confused Sark the most- until he thought about it. He could read Sydney like a book, how she probably took responsibility for the entire thing, felt that Francie and Will were both the consequences of her own bad choices.  
  
In fact, Sydney had even pulled strings with the CIA so that Will would not spend any time in jail-- instead she set him up with some in-government therapy sessions. Sark was still marveling over her generosity. He would have had Tippin killed within a week. He had almost been tempted to do that anyways, after seeing the aftermath, with Sydney lying bloodied on the ground.  
  
That had been the worst part-- he had witnessed the whole thing through binoculars a block away. That was as close as he dared to get- without Sloane and Irina's knowledge. Otherwise, Sydney was as good as dead anyways. He could barely stand it- seeing Sydney bludgeoned to near death, with him able to do nothing. He would not have stood it much longer, Irina or not, if he hadn't seen Vaughn show up. That was when the feelings had started-low in his stomach, constantly burning, coming with the knowledge that this was entirely his fault.  
  
Three days later Sydney was out of the hospital-Sark had kept track-and he still watched her. She was, after all, his only ally, he told himself. He saw her, the day after she had been let out. From a rooftop, he had watched her go out to her back patio, away from her doting boyfriend and father, and ball up and cry.  
  
An image had suddenly flashed in front of his face, something that had made him jump in apprehension. Him, right in front of Sydney, kissing away the tears one by on as they cascaded down her face. More unwanted emotions. It had been enough to keep himself away from her for quite awhile.  
  
But here it was, four days before doomsday, and he had no time left to cool down his sanity. He drove within a block of Sydney's house, close enough that he could see that her car was gone. He knew exactly where she'd be.  
  
************************  
  
Sydney looked to find the sturdiest guardrail post, then quickly tied her bungee cord off at the spot. Back on the coast once more, she felt the familiar sensation of cool sea wind breathing at the back of her neck, cutting through the heat and musing her hair.  
  
The bruises on her body were fading fast now. She had been lucky- no bone were broken. Just some stitches and a mild concussion. She had been lucky, but Will would never heal.  
  
Strapping herself in to the other end of the rope, she slowly climbed over the guardrail, and looked down at the churning waves below. It looked the same as it had last time she'd been here. She had been waiting for this. Closing her eyes and tilting her head to the sky, she threw her arms out wide and let herself fall towards the cool blue water below.  
  
Like a ballerina, she did pirouettes in the air, swirling her dance through the air til an icy splash stopped her descent. Piano music played in her head, and her world went into a slow motion frenzy of water pulsating against her. So simple and innocent. How she used to feel.  
  
She had almost passed out before she grudgingly went up for air. There was this feeling that her moment would be ruined once she left the submersion of her underwater utopia. Once she had come up for air, the rush and the quiet were over. Sydney sighed and threw her body up onto the rocky shore, and prepared herself for a steep rocky climb back up to her car.  
  
The heat baked on her wet back and shoulders, even with the water droplets still dampening her skin. Strings of her hair had come out from her ponytail and stuck across her cheek in dark lines. Sydney gripped another rock above her, found a foothold, and continued her climb.  
  
Breathing out when she reached the top, Sydney closed her eyes and faced the ocean once more. She didn't want to go home. It didn't feel like that anymore.  
  
An iron hand clamped over mouth, and her eyes shot open. Another well- trained arm had her around the arms before she could think, delaying movement. Her viewpoint went from the coastline to a yellow legal pad, waving madly and frantically in front of her face. A message, written in very large letters, scrawled across the page.  
  
I WILL LET YOU GO, BUT TALK AND WE'RE BOTH DEAD.  
  
The handwriting had a familiar, sharp slant to it that Sydney was beginning to recognize instantly. 


	7. The Sound of Silence

Sark spun Sydney around, hand still clamped firmly over her mouth, and looked at her to see if she understood. Her eyes were widened, but she relaxed slightly after seeing who it was. Not too much though. It was Sark, after all. Sydney nodded, and Sark let her go. True to her word, she stayed silent.  
  
That was what Sark respected about Sydney; she wouldn't fight if she knew the situation would only be worsened by it. She would think before screwing things up.  
  
Instead, she spoke volumes just with her glare. She snatched the legal pad out of his hand, slapped it down on the hood of his car, and proceeded to write in fierce, block letters.  
  
EXPLAIN. NOW.  
  
Sark was quite amused by her glaring. She was really very funny when she got angry, he thought. Rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses, he gestured for her to hand over the paper. Grudgingly, she shoved the pad at his chest.  
  
I'VE BEEN BUGGED. IRINA'S TRACKING MY MOVEMENTS AND MONITORING WHO I TALK TO.  
  
Sydney continued glaring while she read the message.  
  
GOOD FOR HER.  
  
Sark sighed. He'd have to try a different approach. Something less direct.  
  
I KNEW YOU'D BE HERE.  
  
Sydney gave him a questioning look.  
  
HAVE YOU BEEN FOLLOWING ME?  
  
Smirk.  
  
ON AND OFF, FOR SAFETY'S SAKE.  
  
He had sparked her curiosity.  
  
WHAT DO YOU MEAN?  
  
I NEED YOUR HELP. I HAVE A PROBLEM., he wrote back.  
  
In response Sydney gave him the finger, angrily wrote FUCK YOU across the entire page, and slid it across the hood to Sark. He grabbed her arm as she started to walk back to her car, and forced her to look at what he was writing.  
  
YOU'RE THE ONLY PERSON WHO CAN HELP ME, then grudgingly added, PLEASE.  
  
Sydney grabbed the pen, looking as if she was going to stab him with it. Sark winced back, in spite of himself.  
  
NO WAY. YOU RUINED MY LIFE.  
  
Sydney's face was contorted with anger, but underneath it all, he knew, Sydney wasn't angry, just sad and afraid. That's what he was half the time, though he never admitted it. She looked about ready to explode, and all he could do was mouth, "I'm sorry."  
  
IF I'D KNOWN ABOUT WILL, I WOULDN'T HAVE TOLD YOU THE TRUTH. . . . BUT I FIGURED YOU SHOULD KNOW.  
  
Sydney's lips were threatening to turn down into the panicked frown she always seemed to wear.  
  
It was your fault-she mouthed.  
  
I'm so sorry-he said again, stepping closer. And for once, he actually was sincere. He tried to write some sort of explanation, anything to keep her there and listening.  
  
BY THE TIME I'D FOUND OUT WHAT SLOANE HAD ORDERED, IT WAS TOO LATE. I JUST CONFIRMED, I DIDN'T ORCHESTRATE IT.  
  
Mouth still frowning, Sydney turned around a minute and ran her fingers through her hair. Sark started to reach up his arms to hold her, almost a reflex, before he realized what he was doing. He took a step back. That was definitely not road he wanted to go down.  
  
Sydney leaned against the car, and slid down to sitting position. Her eyes were closed, and he could tell that she was fighting like hell to keep control of her emotions. Compartmentalize.  
  
After a few deep breaths and what seemed like forever to Sark, Sydney opened her eyes with a look of serene calm-though Sark knew she was still acting. He almost wondered if anybody really did know the real Sydney Bristow, the one buried under layers of Aliases. Certainly not her poodle- pretty boytoy she had waiting back home. That guy was about as useful as a snowsuit in hell.  
  
Slowly, deliberately, Sydney scrawled out a message on the dwindling supply of paper.  
  
WHY SHOULD I HELP YOU?  
  
It wasn't scornful, just a sincere question. Wow, he thought, we're actually reaching conversation ranges beyond sarcasm. He slid down next to her.  
  
I CAN HELP YOU FIND-he started to write "your mother", but then quickly crossed it out-IRINA.  
  
It took a few more breaths before Sydney could open her eyes again at that one. Sark could not believe how many complications this woman had in her life-it was a wonder she hadn't committed suicide already. She'd made too many attachments, and she was paying for it.  
  
He watched for a minute as her hand clenched into a fist around a stubborn clump of crabgrass in the barren dirt. A sudden chill wind brought sea spray and cold, and Sydney gave one involuntary shiver before the sun beat down again.  
  
A large purple bruise was still prevalent on the side of her arm. Sark felt another pang of emotion he didn't want to identify-he had caused that. Inadvertently, he reached up and brushed his thumb over the spot gently with his thumb. Sydney stiffened at the contact, but did not open her eyes.  
  
Tentatively, Sark's hand found its way on top of Sydney's clenched fist, a gesture that was silent and small, but somehow intimate. He felt her hand relax a minute under his, before she tensed up again and regained control. Opening her eyes, she gave him a plaintive look, almost speaking, then catching herself. She still hadn't moved her hand.  
  
With her other hand, she slowly reached up, and took off his sunglasses, her face looking close into his eyes, and tossed them over the cliff. Sark wasn't quite sure what the gesture meant, but somehow, he didn't seem to mind. It just fit.  
  
Looking down, Sydney smiled, realizing they were out of paper.  
  
Removing her hand, but still staying close enough to lean on him, she wrote on her own hand.  
  
WHAT DO YOU NEED?  
  
Sark smiled. 


	8. Hmmmmm

The plan was this: Get Sark into the CIA like Irina planned, but get him out again before the government had a chance for an execution. To Sydney, it sounded too simple.  
  
WAIT A SECOND, HOW WAS SHE EXPECTING YOU TO INFILTRATE THE ORGANIZATION FROM A PRISON CELL? They had now taken out their respective laptops, and found the communication much more environmentally friendly. I MEAN, I KNOW THAT CIA SECURITY IS LAUGHED AT BY THE REST OF THE WORLD, BUT YOU STILL DON'T EXPECT TO ESCAPE WITH NO OUTSIDE HELP.  
  
I DON'T THINK SHE WAS EXACTLY THINKING OF ME GETTING THAT FAR BEFORE I WAS KILLED. Sydney thought about that a moment.  
  
I DON'T KNOW-IT STILL SEEMS TOO SIMPLE. SOMETHING IS UP. Sark looked at her as if to say, What do you expect me to do? She continued typing.  
  
DID YOU SAY THEY PLANTED A TRACKING DEVICE ON YOU?  
  
AND BUG, Sark wrote back, THEY DRUGGED ME AND SURGICALLY IMPLANTED IT.  
  
SO YOU WEREN'T AWAKE TO SEE THEM DO IT? She typed.  
  
NO.  
  
WELL THEN YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT ELSE THEY COULD HAVE PLANTED ON YOU-THE BUG AND TRACKER ARE JUST THE THINGS YOU DISCOVERED ON YOUR OWN. she continued.  
  
WELL, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DO? LAST TIME I TRIED TO GO TO MY SURGEON TO REMOVE IT, HE WOUND UP DEAD AND MY CAR WAS SET ON FIRE. YOU SHOULD KNOW-YOU WERE THERE WHEN THE CAR BIT THE DUST. Sark was being rather cocky for someone whose life was in danger. . . . . but then again, had she expected any less from him? It really was too bad, she thought, I was so looking forward to seeing Sark scared shitless. What she should have realized was that even if Sark was scared shitless, he was never going to show it outright. Too much pride.  
  
Sydney smiled a conspiratorial smile. Maybe she would see him scared yet.  
  
WELL, HAVE YOU GOT A POCKET KNIFE AND SOME SPARE TIME? Sark stared at her wide-eyed.  
  
OH, DON'T GIVE ME THAT LOOK-I'VE HAD SOME TRAINING ON THIS STUFF. IF IT'S JUST BELOW THE SKIN I CAN GET IT OUT IN 15 MINUTES OR LESS. Sydney glared wickedly. OF COURSE, FOR YOU IT'S GOING TO HURT LIKE HELL.  
  
Sark glared back. I CAN HANDLE IT.  
  
Five minutes later, Sydney was sterilizing Sark's Swiss army knife with a lighter while Sark took off his shirt and laid down on the makeshift operating table; namely some folded sown seats in Sydney's car.  
  
___________________________________________________  
  
Sark could not believe he was letting her do this. He closed his eyes and winced prematurely, waiting for the impending pain. She was right; this was going to hurt like hell. But he certainly wasn't about to admit his apprehension to her. Why was he even trusting her with this anyway?  
  
His black T-shirt lay discarded in the dust by the road. It had been the first time in at least a year that he hadn't worn a dress shirt. He remembered thinking, if I'm going to die, let me at least die looking good AND being comfortable. It made him feel like a teenager, but he didn't care. He would have given anything to have that feeling of no responsibility.  
  
And now he letting Sydney have total control of him-with a knife no less. Nervously, thoughts flew a mile a minute through his head, though his exterior stayed calm. He knew how much she hated him-was this him merely tempting fate? She could slit his throat before he even had a chance to shout in defense. But then again, he reasoned, I am a dead man anyways. At least this would seem to be a much more . . . . . . . .pleasant . . . . . way to die.  
  
Sydney was now straddling his buttocks in a position that would have seemed oddly sexual had it not been for the fact that she was holding a knife. Her fingers slid down his back softly, searching for the spot to cut. Everywhere they touched tingled and tensed, heightening his senses.  
  
Holy hell.  
  
Sark could suddenly feel Sydney's body pressed against his back in a perfect fit of hard muscles and soft sensations. Sliding across his bare skin to speak in his ear, a slight bit of her shirt gathered so that he could feel her warm skin against his. She bent down close enough to whisper, so soft that the bug could not have possibly picked it up. Her lips grazed his earlobe lightly as she spoke.  
  
"Just relax."  
  
Yeah, fat chance of that.  
  
Sark was suddenly very glad that he was lying facedown. He still could not believe he was letting her do this.  
  
_______________________________________________________________  
  
Sydney rose up again, lightly moved her fingers over his skin one more time until she found the spot. She knew she was playing with his head, but she relished seeing him squirm. But fun was over. Getting down to business. . . . . .  
  
It was hard though, with Sark's muscles tensing and relaxing like that under his smooth warm skin. Sydney breathed out involuntarily. She had lost the spot again. He must think her an imbecile at this point, with her having to find the lump again every five minutes.  
  
Sydney felt for it again, and smiled with the pleasure of feeling Sark's muscles tighten under her touch. Completely unnecessarily, Sydney glided her finger down his spine, well defined amidst Sark's muscles. Inside, she was laughing on the ground at his discomfort. It was so ironic that she would be the one to catch the stoic Mr. Sark off guard. There, she found it again, and this time was determined not to lose it.  
  
Sydney put her knife tip to his skin, but the sweat on her palms caused it to slip as soon as she gripped it tight.  
  
The tool fell to the car floor, right below Sark's shoulder, in an act of divine inspiration. She could see Sark's white-knuckled grip loosen as he saw it fall. Sydney reached out her hand and bent in to pick it up just as Sark reached out with his arm. Their fingers touched over the knife. Both stopped, side by side, and looked at each other. Sydney could see the thought processes working behind Sark's intelligent blue eyes-which course of action he was going to take.  
  
Like a kaleidoscope, his eyes picked up the light as they turned.  
  
Sydney closed her eyes to clear her head and keep him out, but was then met with the soft feeling of Sark's lips brushing lightly over her own. Down her chin, over her throat, and resting at the base of her neck, soft and tender. Just barely there, but sending chills coursing through her body. It took her a moment to breathe again, ruffling through Sark's hair.  
  
Reaching up, she held his head there for a moment, kissing his blonde curls and fingering them needingly. Then gradually her hands slid down his neck and tensed gripping the muscles on his back. She could feel his warm breath flow across her lips.  
  
Opening her eyes, she saw Sark's blue filling up her vision, their faces so close that she could feel him in the dark. Sark raised a finger to his lips.  
  
Shhhhh. . . . . . . . .  
  
Silently, Sark's fingers felt upward along the skin of her stomach, raising the fabric of her shirt, then pulling it off altogether. His lips grazed across her stomach, chest, and throat, and found themselves once again on Sydney's own.  
  
Holding each other side by side, the kiss deepened. With her free hand, Sydney closed the car door, choosing not the think of the consequences. 


	9. Surveillance

Just her sitting, underneath a infinite expanse of blue. . . Blue sky, blue water, blue eyes. . .  
  
". . . . . Thinking about something in particular, Irina?" Irina Derevko had been so deep in her meditation she hadn't even heard anyone enter the room. In fact, she was pretty sure she had left it locked. . .  
  
Irina looked up to see Sloane standing in the doorway with a key. Of course he would have a key. It was his goddamned house after all. They looked at each other a moment, sizing each other up. Irina knew as well as he that they were only truly working together out of necessity.  
  
"Just resting, Arvin." She said elusively. "What's going on?"  
  
"Nothing," he said, all the while examining her in that unnerving way, as he did with everyone, "You had asked to be interrupted by six so you could check up on the monitoring."  
  
It was six already? Irina thought. Time was always so hard to measure when you were hovering on the cusp of consciousness.  
  
"Thank you." She said. Sloane nodded after her, and shut the door behind him. She waited for a few minutes after he left, to make sure he had gone. The less contact between her and Sloane, the better.  
  
"What have we got?" she asked as she descended the basement stairway. The room had been rearranged for all their equipment to the point where it had transformed from looking like a medieval wine cellar to looking like a tech room for NASA. One of the monitoring technicians sat in the corner with his headphones on and a lazy grin plastered on his face.  
  
"What's going on?" Irina asked him. He didn't respond. Irina slapped him upside the head. Sputtering, he quickly took off the headphones and sat up straighter, looking at her with a mix of fear and respect. That's better, she thought.  
  
"What's going on?" she asked again, annunciating every syllable impatiently.  
  
"Um, well. . ." he eyes darted back and forth.  
  
"What?" Irina looked at him strangely.  
  
"He, uh. . . he hasn't had any conversational exchanges in the past few hours-"  
  
"So there's nothing to report?"  
  
"Well, uh-"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, there, um, there has been some, uh. . .hmmm. . ." he ran a hand nervously through his hair. "-there has been some activity. . ."  
  
"What kind of activity?"  
  
"Uh. . . ." he stopped short.  
  
"Oh for God's sake-" Irina snatched the headphones. The tech had been right. Sark wasn't talking to anyone. Irina's eyes widened a moment at the sounds of heavy breathing at the other end.  
  
"Oh." She said, understating the obvious. The tech gave her a "I told you so" look.  
  
"Well." She said. Sark was entitled. It was, after all, his last month or so on earth. She smiled secretively at the tech.  
  
"Keep up the good work. Let me know if anything changes."  
  
He looked at her a moment. "You mean you want me to tell you if-"  
  
"No." Irina, who was too composed for anything like rolling her eyes, nevertheless thought about it. "Alert me if anything important happens."  
  
"OK" he said, smiling, and went back to his headphones. _________________________  
  
Sydney woke with a start. It took a moment to realize that there was a strange arm wrapped around her in the dark. All of a sudden, the event of the evening came flowing back into her memory like a bad dream. She took a breath, almost swearing out loud before stopping herself. They were still being monitored.  
  
And she had slept with Sark. What the Hell had she been thinking? Again she peered out at the blackened sky. What time was it? How long had she been asleep. Sydney squeezed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to try and make herself forget the horrendous mistake she had just made. What she needed was peace, not more complications.  
  
Without thinking, she burrowed herself further into Sark's arms, out of some inane effort to seek comfort. Still sleeping, he tightened his grip around her shoulders, almost as if by habit. A second later, Sydney jumped up, realizing what she was doing. Sitting up now, she looked at Sark, who, miraculously, was still sleeping.  
  
All the better. Finding a receipt scrap underneath her carseat, she hurriedly scrawled out a message while trying to get her shirt on at the same time.  
  
THIS WAS A MISTAKE. HOWEVER, I STILL WANT TO HELP YOU. MEET ME AT THE STORAGE FACILITY ON 36TH STREET. TOMORROW. 4 O'CLOCK. I'LL HAVE PROPER ANESTHETICS THIS TIME.  
  
She wrote only what needed to be said, and no more. She thought a moment, and added:  
  
I'VE TAKEN YOUR CAR. I'LL GET IT BACK TO YOU TOMORROW.  
  
She left her car keys for him next to the note. There was no way she was going to risk waking him up to get him out of her car.  
  
As soon as she settled herself into the leather seat of his black convertible (how he'd managed to get a new one so fast, she'd never know), Sydney proceeded to scream out the longest string of cuss words she had ever uttered in her life. How had she let things get this far? The game had turned around on her, as it always seemed to do. Tears streaming down on her face, she tore off into the night.  
  
___________________________  
  
At 3 AM Sark woke to find a note and some car keys under his arm, where Sydney had been not so long ago. It took him a second to remember everything.  
  
"Fuck. . ." he swore out loud. He'd rally messed things up. This was the first time he had managed to let himself become so undone in a long time. He shouldn't have let this happened. What had happened to his control?  
  
And where had Sydney gone? Sark quickly perused the note, and found his answer.  
  
"Fuck." He said again, to no one in particular.  
  
And to add insult to injury, he was now stuck with her junkheap of a car, while she had made off with his BMW.  
  
"Jesus Christ," he mumbled, pulling on his shirt. Tomorrow at 4 O'clock it was then. Thank God this time he would at least be unconscious. 


End file.
